Vienna
by starshards
Summary: A collection of moments picked out from the years of turmoil that followed the French Revolution, up until Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo, and the signing of the Final Act at the Congress of Vienna.
1. Chapter 1

_This fic really has no pairings. It's really not that sort of fic, since the whole thing is about shifting alliances. You will, however, find slight leaning towards Austria/ Hungary, England/ Prussia, England/ Portugal, England/ France, France/Spain, France/ Poland, and Spain/ Romano, but in all but one of these cases, it is nothing particularly sexual._

_As a European, I love reading into the mess that the Napoleonic campaigns created. As to be expected though, as a fanfiction and not a dissertation, I have in places utilised my "artistic lisence."_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

_-1808-_

It had been another beautiful day; an image straight out of an oil painting, of blue skies, and green fields dotted with small points of red as the tomato crop began to ripen.

His kingdom, Spain thought with pride as he sunk further into his rickety wooden chair, may have lost its vast amounts of wealth, may have been recovering from war, may have been struggling to regain its pride, but it would always have the sun. Some small part of him reasoned that it was all the gold that he would ever need (the larger part of him scoffed at the thought. There would never be enough gold for him. He was trying though, these days. In losing the strength to rule the world, Spain had found it easy to make the transition into an idealist.)

There was something strangely satisfying about spending his day on a nameless little farmstead a good few leagues away from Barcelona. More so than his grand palace in Madrid which ran rife with political intrigue and struggle. He had to laugh at the thought. Perhaps Romano was right to call him a simpleton, after all. He was always so cute when he thought that he was making a clever insult.

A perfect day indeed, Spain sighed, eyes closing in a contentment that seemed to sink right down to his bones. He raised his glass of sherry in a wordless salute to no one in particular, bringing it back to his lips in order to savour in its sweet taste. Well deserved, he told himself, well deserved.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts of fetching Romano, and watching the sunset with him, prompting him to smile in confusion. Romano was never polite enough to knock, and he had no reason to (it was his home. Their secret little house where Spain liked to go when he wanted to escape, if only for a few days) but no one else would chose to visit him, especially not so far out in the countryside.

A local farmer, Spain guessed as he loped towards the door, easy grin resting on his lips.

The greeting that was resting on the tip of his tongue died at the sight of France standing in his doorway. He stayed quiet, unsure of what to say, fingers clenching against the wood of the doorframe.

The awkward moment of silence did not go unnoticed by either of them, confirming Spain's dread, and France's irritation that things were definitely not okay between them. Not since Spain had broken hundreds of years of friendship. Not since France had hit back, forcing Spain to stand by his side in a war that he did not wish for, watching helplessly as Naples was taken away from a sobbing Romano.

'France!' Spain forced out a smile that he hoped looked welcoming (leave, oh please leave). 'What an unexpected pleasure,' he said in a light tone.

France smiled back at him. 'The pleasure is all mine, if I am allowed to see my dear Spain.'

Spain simply smiled back, mind frantic as he scanned for any sign, any small sign that France was_ okay_ now, daring to hope that perhaps he was, perhaps he'd seen sense (he's just invaded Portugal, you fool. He made you help him, and now he's come for you too. He knows what you've been doing. He knows what's going on in Madrid.)

'Are you going to invite me in?' France prompted.

Startled, Spain reflexively stepped aside, unsure as to whether it was his optimism, or the quiet thrum of self- preservation that had begun to stir in his veins, that shifted him to one side in silent invitation. Memories of France forcing his way into his home in Madrid were still fresh, and he found himself dreading a repeat of the events of the past fourteen years. He wanted an end to all of this. He was so tired of it all.

'Ah, Spain!' France laughed suddenly, the sound warm, and strangely affectionate, startling Spain from his worries. Behind France's back, and out of sight, his face tightened into a concerned frown. 'Is this hovel really what you've been reduced to? It must be awful to be so poor.'

'Drink?' Spain offered, already busying himself with the sherry decanter (the finest crystal. A small luxury, and a reminder of times gone by), back turned to France so that the other could not see his expression.

'No, thank you. I need to keep a clear head. Can't have you going and getting me drunk now, can we?' France laughed again. It sounded odd to Spain. There was something wrong. He was sure of it now.

'I guess not,' Spain replied, forcing cheeriness that he didn't feel into his voice.

'I doubt it's your best stuff anyway,' France continued. 'I'd imagine that's currently being squandered by your glorious royal family.' An obvious jab. A sharp reminder of the last time they had come to blows.

Spain's hand tightened briefly around the decanter, and when he turned back around to finally face France, he had dropped all pretences, face set in an insulted scowl. 'They were chosen by God, France. You would do well to remember that, yeah?'

France only smirked. 'You're so predictable, Spain.'

Spain's frown deepened. 'Why are you here, France?'

'Eh?' France looked genuinely surprised at that. For a moment Spain didn't know what to think. 'Why would I not come to visit you? You're the closest thing I've ever had to a brother, my dear Spain, my most beloved neighbour. Surely you do not think that I have forgotten you?'

Spain's frown softened at how sincere France sounded, hope once again sparking within his chest. Hope that maybe France was coming back to his senses. Hope that maybe they could sit down, and talk, and negotiate, and maybe even get France his monarchy back. And then everything would be back to normal, and they could sit and talk late into the night together once more. He could forgive France for the invasion only a few short years before, could forgive him for the coercion, and even the threats against Romano if it meant that France would go back to being the man that he had adored for so many years.

'My unending love for you is the very reason why I have come to you, my dear Spain,' France continued, hands coming together before his face, almost as if he was praying. 'You are the one who I want by my side when I begin the new European order. Once I enlighten you, of course,' he added.

'_Enlighten_ me?' Spain parroted, heart sinking as the hope within him flickered and began to die.

'Rid you of those ridiculous little uprisings,' France explained, as if it was such a simple feat. 'They want independence for you, Spain, but they are blinded! They don't realise that you are independent, that I love you and wish only to help you claim back what you have lost!' Spain stared at him, stunned into a horrified silence. 'Now, we'll see if we can't get these traitors to calm down once Joseph is on the throne of Spain.'

'Joseph?' Spain spluttered. 'You've already forced Charles, my God chosen -'

'God did not choose your king, Spain,' France responded, staring at him levelly. 'God would not chose a single, pitiful, fragile human creature to hold so much power. God has chosen us. _We_ are the ones with the power here, and since your mind is too clouded by complacency, I have taken it upon myself to see that someone more able is there to guide you when I cannot. You should be thanking me for my kindness.'

'Power?' Spain scoffed. 'What you talk of is madness!'

'No,' France snapped. 'What I speak of is nothing less than perfect sense.' He stopped to take a deep breath, closing his eyes in an effort to calm himself. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual, soft state. 'I want you by my side, Spain. You are my most precious ally, and it pains me to see your vision so clouded by nothing more than sentimental dogma.'

'Dogma?' Spain hissed. 'You are the one who has committed heresy!'

'How so?' France asked. 'Because I have set you free of a life of servitude?' Spain said nothing, spinning back around to pour himself a glass of sherry. It was all too hysterically funny. "Set free." He almost laughed at the thought. 'Don't be a fool, Spain. You're better than that.'

'Oh?' Spain said, staring sardonically at the wall. '_I'm _the fool?'

'Yes,' France said simply. Spain's hand tightened its hold around the neck of the decanter. 'Look at yourself, Spain. Look at _me_. I stand on the verge of glory, while you live in fear, longing to return back to the glory of your past. Come with me. Join me in your rightful place at my side. Help me to tear down those traitorous thoughts within your heart so that you may know happiness. Reclaim what you have lost. Gold, glory! It could be yours once again. Just allow yourself to see sense!' Spain chuckled. A small, wan sound that caught France's interest and made him cease in his impassioned rant. 'Why do you laugh?'

'I'm laughing at myself; not you,' Spain smiled, staring down at the crystal cradled in his hands, 'because, for a moment there, I actually considered it. Ahhhh!' Spain sighed, causing France to frown in confusion at the unexpected sound that was far too slapstick for the tense atmosphere in the room. 'You always know how to hit my weak point, right?' Spain continued, though he still did not turn to face France. 'Gold… hmmm… sounds so lovely doesn't it? Just thinking about being wealthy again makes my heart skip a beat. It actually makes me feel some kinda of regret to turn down your generous offer.'

'Spain,' France warned. 'Choose your words carefully.'

Spain shook his head slowly. 'You talk of seeing sense, France. My mind has never been clearer. You talk about traitorous thoughts? Traitorous to whom? My people want freedom. They want to feel pride in themselves once again. They're tired of living in a puppet state, and I'm tired of _being_ a puppet state. I do not wish for war. I just want a simpler, more peaceful life. Sure, I still get the occasional cravings for blood and gold, but they fade more and more each day, and I'm happier for it. Maybe I don't want glory any more. Maybe I grew up, and began to appreciate my life as it is, yeah?' Spain broke off to smile fondly. 'It's not like I can really even afford to join you on your little crusade across Europe, even if I wanted to. As it is, I cannot help wanting freedom, France. If you'll let me go, I'll cause you no hassle. As long as I have the sun, Romano, and God by my side, I know happiness. So please, leave me be.'

France stared at him, silent for a long moment, Spain praying that he had heeded his words, that their years of friendship, and brotherhood would count for something. 'Then know happiness no longer,' France responded finally. Spain's smile immediately dropped from his face at the tone of his voice, barely restraining from shivering at the iciness in it. 'God is not by your side. And Romano?' France laughed, though the sound carried no humour. 'He longs to be free of you, longs to cease being your prisoner. Surely you've noticed the way in which he's grown up recently, Spain? Surely you know what that means?'

Spain said nothing, knuckles turning white as he gripped the decanter.

'He was only too eager to leave your side, the moment that I offered it. And now, thanks to your thoughtless arrogance, you stand against us.'

Spain stopped breathing at that, stunned into a horrified paralysis. It was happening again. Romano was- oh God, Romano. Without even being aware of moving, Spain was at his front door, flinging it open, shouting, calling out, eyes desperately scanning the empty fields.

'Romano. Where is Romano?' Spain snarled, whirling back to face France, eyes wide in feral panic.

'He's already with my men, Spain. He came willingly because he wants greet the future too. He has seen sense, and no longer wishes to be subservient to a selfish, and misguided man,' France replied, his voice as steady, and cold as a rock.

'Romano, he-' Spain choked on his own breath as he felt anguish flood him. Roma… Roma hated him that much? Hadn't even said goodbye- no. No that wasn't right. Romano hated France. He hated living under France's controlling watch. He hated how he had lost Naples. There was just no way. Romano would never let things end between them like _this_.

'At least I cannot take the sun away from you,' France continued. 'Though I can always pray for that to happen. It's no less than you deserve.'

'You!' Spain hissed, mind buzzing with roaring electricity, body shaking with the desire to fight, hands trembling with the need to tear, and rend, and cause pain. It was horrifying, and illogical, and fundamental, and Spain embraced it, barely feeling the sting of glass in his fingers as the decanter that he still held shattered in his fingers.

'You could not afford the price of joining me, but you can afford the price of fighting against me?' France said in a deadly tone of voice. 'I forgave you for your last betrayal, my dear Spain, but I have been foolish enough to allow you to hurt me so deeply once again. It is a mistake that I shall not repeat in future.'

'Bastard!' Spain roared, lunging at France, barely even thinking straight. He had to- had to get France out of his house- had to get Romano back- had to fight for God and his people and what was right.

But Spain had been weakened from too many defeats, had grown sluggish since his fall from power, had lost his focus since he had lost his freedom to France. He had the heart, but not the capacity, and France had become so, so strong.

He took the first hit to his cheek, barely feeling it. The next hit broke his nose, causing his face to explode in pain. The one to his gut made him see stars, leaving him little time to register the fact that his back had collided with the floor. By the time the skin on his brow had split, and flooded his vision with blood, he could barely breathe, lungs aching at the pressure from his broken ribs. The pressure grew, his eyes bulging as France ceased in his blows to encircle his hands around Spain's neck instead.

'You repay my kindness, and love with war. I could spit on you for your ungratefulness, but you're not worth it. You're not worth anything to me any more. You're just a piece of land to me now, and I will have you, but never again at my side. Never again as my friend, and brother, and comrade.'

'Fuck you,' Spain wheezed.

France's eyes, glittering in madness, were the last things he saw before the next strike knocked him unconscious.

In the darkness, he prayed.

* * *

_-1796-_

Poland's gaze flitted around the room nervously as he waited, hand itching to reach out and grab- somehow he managed to stop that train of thought, the bitter pang of sorrow, forcing his focus back onto the issue at hand.

'Ah, Poland!' France called out as he stepped out from beyond the double- doors of the audience hall. 'What a pleasure it is to see you today.'

At that Poland bowed stiffly. 'Many thanks,' he said, straightening back up, 'for seeing me on such short notice. You must be very busy.' The words tasted almost acidic on Poland's tongue, formal words, and grovelling shows of respect very, very far from his usual style. Unfortunately, however, it was necessary, and Poland was a far more pragmatic man than most people believed him to be. If a little discomfort was all it took for the greater good, then so be it.

'I'm never too busy to see old friends,' France responded with a cheerful grin, and a sweeping hand gesture. Poland barely refrained from snorting at that. Apart from sharing some members of the monarchy (which, considering that they were both European, it would have been far more strange if they _hadn't_ shared any royalty) he and France had hardly ever been close. Still, Poland had to be thankful for the fact that he _had_ had to deal with France in the past, because otherwise, he would have been a stuttering bundle of nerves right at that moment.

'I'm honoured,' Poland replied politely. He didn't mean it, of course.

'Am I right in assuming that your arrival here without an army at your back means that you are one of the few people in Europe who _isn't_ calling for my blood?' France smirked, finding his comment far funnier than he should have. Poland looked at him for a long moment, before shrugging his worry away. Everyone in Europe knew that France had gone half mad. What was far more important to Poland was that he was strong, and for that reason alone, he couldn't care less about the state of France's mental health.

Poland took a deep breath and looked France straight in the eyes, straightening his posture in a way in which he hoped made him appear much stronger than he actually was. 'I want to join you,' he said simply. France stared at him a long moment, silent, leaving Poland's words to hang heavily in the air.

And then France smiled slowly. 'Do you now?'

'You're totally fighting a war on all sides, France. You've managed to piss everyone off to the extreme, and now, on your Eastern front you've got the freak patrol of Prussia, Austria, and Russia,' he spat the last name as if it was poisonous. 'Well it just so happens that I totally hate all three of them, and would like nothing more than to see them all crushed like bugs. I figure that you're the guy who can do it, so I wanna help.'

'You want to be back on the map,' France stated, grinning smugly at him.

Poland clicked his tongue. 'Okay, fine. Yes I do. I wanna get my land back, and I wanna see them suffer for what they did. My people want their independence back, and I'm gonna do everything in my power to see that happen.'

France regarded him for a long moment. 'And what makes you think that I need you so badly?' he said finally.

Poland scowled, insulted. 'Because my people are fighters, France. They'll give everything they've got to get free of the oppression that those bastards are forcing on them!' He broke off when he realised that he was almost shouting, the barely withheld fury that he had forced himself to keep in check around Prussia, Austria, and Russia spilling forth far too easily. He had to take a moment to breathe in deeply, reining his emotions in, trying desperately to appear much calmer than he was actually feeling. He had to get France to take him seriously. He wouldn't let his journey, and the risks that he had faced –was still facing- go to waste. 'Look, no matter how you look at it, my cavalry is, like, still the best in Europe. If you let me join you, and if you help me fight for my country, I can totally guarantee the best, and bravest men you will ever see will join your ranks.'

France hummed in thought. 'My help in liberating your country, in return for your troops?' he clarified.

'And Lie- Lithuania's safe return,' Poland added.

France seemed surprised for a moment. 'Ah,' he said finally. 'I was wondering what looked so odd about you, besides the bandage, of course,' he said as he pointed to his eye. 'You know… it really is rather bizarre to see you on your own after all of these years.'

'Will you help me or not?' Poland snapped.

'I must admit that your offer is delightfully tempting, Poland,' France admitted. 'One question though,' he added. Poland simply looked steadily at him in response, waiting for him to continue. 'Ah, I was just wondering who is currently in possession of your eye.'

'…Prussia,' Poland said after a long moment.

'Ah, I suppose you want me to help you get that back too. Not that that is a problem to me, my dear Poland. You do have such alluring eyes.' France's smirk suddenly made Poland feel uncomfortable, reminding him sharply of just how dependent he was on France's answer to his request. 'Very well,' France nodded suddenly. 'Kneel before me, and it shall be done.'

Immediately, Poland dropped to his knees, swallowing back his pride, and almost grimacing at the bitter taste that it left in his throat. 'I'll kneel, France,' he said quietly, head bowed. 'But that is all that I'll do.'

France laughed at that, sounding genuinely amused by Poland's implication. 'Of course, my dear, of course; you forget that I too am an admirer, and practitioner of Catholic virtues.'

Poland said nothing, continuing to stare down at the floor, mind focused on the future. He would right the wrongs done to him, and his people. He'd return everything to normal. He was, as his people were, a fighter. And while he acted the clown, when it came down to it, Poland was already ready to do what needed to be done.

France's laughter penetrated his thoughts once again, and slowly he turned his eye up to stare at him. He was wearing a far- away expression, eyes glazed, and mouth curved into a delighted grin, Poland noted uncomfortably.

'With the hussars by my side, it will look almost as if God has sent his angels,' he smiled, though Poland had no way of telling if France was actually addressing him, or not.

Poland shuddered at that. He could only pray that, if that was the case, God had chosen their side.

* * *

_-1793-_

For the briefest moment he thought that Romano looked cute, but even he had enough sense to chide himself for it. There was nothing cute about Romano standing stiffly at his side, and wearing an oversized military jacket. What, in other circumstances, might have been adorable, instead now only highlighted how fragile Romano was. How his wiry frame, though growing, was still adolescent, still all too easy to bruise, and cut, and crush.

Spain could barely hold back his look of disapproval.

'Stop looking at me like that, bastard,' Romano muttered, looking away. There was no reason to. Spain had already seen the fear in his eyes.

'Why don't you let me handle this, yeah?' Spain said in a gentle voice.

Romano was quick to look up, the terror in his eyes briefly pushed back by a flare of anger. 'You think that I can't do it?' He challenged with a snarl, making his features seem older for a moment. 'Naples and Sicily are _mine_, Spain. You cannot take away my right to represent them, and if you do, you will only prove that you are nothing more than a tyrant.'

Spain was taken aback at the accusation. 'Romano…' he tailed off. Romano had always been wilful, but recently it had been changing into something more sophisticated than a mere child's temper tantrum. It was making it harder and harder by the day for Spain to keep on pretending that nothing was changing. 'I just want to protect you,' he said sadly, hoping that it would be enough to dull Romano's anger.

Romano faltered, seeming to become confused over whether he should glare at, or run to the other man. He settled on looking away with flushed cheeks. 'I don't need your protection, idiot. I can look after myself.'

Spain shivered slightly at the sense of foreboding that ran through him. Not wanting to think on it, he shoved the thought away. 'I don't want to see you get hurt,' he insisted.

Romano laughed at that, a short, bitter sound. 'You should know better than most that sometimes war is necessary.' He sounded almost accusing, the tone, and the implication both making Spain's heart ache uncomfortably.

'Yes, Romano, I know about war. More than enough to know that I don't want you to experience it.' Romano looked back at him, surprised by the unusually stern tone of his voice. When their eyes met, however, Spain's features softened. 'Let me help you. Please.'

There was something frightening, Romano realised in that moment, about seeing Spain with that expression. His green eyes appeared slightly sunken, his skin vaguely ashen. Romano knew then just how tired he was. He had been for a long time.

Suddenly, Romano was not just fearful for himself.

He swallowed sharply, and looked away once again. 'Fine,' he breathed out. 'Fine, but only if you let me help you in return.'

'Romano…'

'Not that it's for you, or anything,' Romano hurried to finish. 'France's revolutionary ideas must be stopped. They are not in the best interests of Naples and Sicily, and that is why I fight. But…' Romano offered him a brief smile. Nothing more than the corner of his lips quirking up for a second, but as expected, Spain didn't fail to notice it. 'You're a terrible boss who can't do anything for himself, so I suppose I'll have to carry on looking after you while I do it.'

'Roma…' Spain studied him for a long moment, surprised, but not unpleasantly so. His little Romano was certainly growing up fast. For some reason, the thought scared him a little bit less than before, and he looked away, unable to hold in his laughter. 'Okay! Leave it all to boss!' he declared, pushing himself off from his seat on the window frame. He stretched languidly, before setting off down the hallway, heading towards the conference room with Romano in tow.

Somehow, it made the decision to declare war on France just a little less painful.

* * *

_Quickie notes: France isn't wholly mad. In fact he did a lot of good for Europe under Napoleon, but to the rest of the more conservative European nations, the kinds of ideas that the French were proposing were preposterous. Going to war with practically everyone also didn't help very much. However, France is not quite sane in this fic during this period of time, still recovering from being in a very bad place, and was still slightly torn internally over what he should even be doing, what with there being a good number of French Royalists fighting against Napoleon, seeking the restoration of the house of Bourbon._

_In 1808, the Spanish were planning an uprising against France, which was further fuelled by Napoleon placing his own brother upon the Spanish throne. Napoleon sent in the French army to quash the rebellion, which was what ended up sparking the Peninsular War._

Romano's hatred for France throughout this story stems from both his character in the comic, and the fact that half of him -Sicily- consistently stood in opposition to French expansion.


	2. Chapter 2

ooo

* * *

_-1808-_

He could see red.

Tomatoes?

'_Awww, you look just like a tomato!'_

'_Shut it, bastard!'_

Romano was always so mean.

Romano.

'Romano!'

The sound of his own voice made his head buzz unpleasantly. Without thinking, he struggled against the hold he was in, his body remembering his previous battle before his mind had time to catch up.

'Shhh, shhhh, Spain-'

Not Romano. Where was Romano? Romano was gone.

'Romano!' he cried out again, his anguish burning his sore throat.

'For fuck's sake, Spain. Fucking calm down!'

Red. Not tomatoes. England.

Spain's eyes fluttered open, focus slowly returning to him. His vision was once again flooded with the red of England's coat, followed by the peachy colour of his skin, the green of his eyes, and the yellow of his hair as his dazed mind began to clear, and process what he was seeing. He was tired, and confused, and didn't even want to bother questioning why he was in England's arms.

'Where am I?' he rasped. It seemed as good a question as any to start with.

'In a camp, near the border with Portugal,' England responded simply.

'My house-'

'Is in a state,' England explained. 'The one that we found you by had been burnt to the ground. Your house in Madrid is currently being occupied by France's little shit of a leader's brother.'

Too much. Too much information. He didn't understand. France? Wait-

'Romano?' he gasped, clutching loosely at England's sleeve.

England shrugged. 'Back home in Naples. France has him under house arrest.'

Spain almost sobbed in relief. Thank God, he thought. _Thank God he's not at war. And thank God he didn't abandon me._

He sagged, strength ebbing away as his relief overwhelmed him, reminding him sharply of the hurt that littered his body. His resulting wince did not go unnoticed by England.

'He really did a number on you.' It was a statement, not requiring, or desiring an answer.

Still, Spain grunted in some sort of agreement. His mind was trying to work faster than it currently could, hundreds questions flittering around in his skull. France… France had taken him. He could feel it in his chest. Feel the cold pit where his heart should have been. Madrid was no longer his. His body was weak, and fragile, no longer his own. 'What will become of the world?' He wondered aloud.

England shifted his grip around the other, readjusting them into a more comfortable position (though he would have sworn until he was blue in the face that it was purely for his own benefit). 'We fight,' England responded, the conviction in his voice almost tangible with the strength behind it.

Of course, Spain realised rather belatedly. His heart might have been gone, and he might have felt as weak as an hour old calf, but the simple fact that it had been England's arms that he had awoken in, and not France's suddenly made it much clearer to him. Yes, he was in agony, and yes, he felt overwhelmed by the feeling of someone trying to force him out of his own body, and yes, he had lost almost everything that he held dear, but as long as he was lying there in a dusty, almost featureless camp, he knew that some small part of him was still free.

'England?' he rasped. He was more tired, and vulnerable than he could ever remember feeling, supported only by the arms of a man that he hated, a man who had overseen much of his own fall from power. And yet, somewhere within him a fire had been lit. It was only small, but it burned strongly, and Spain knew then that he had to do everything in his power to protect that fire, and to nurture it until it grew into something bigger, something stronger.

England stayed silent, perhaps waiting for Spain to continue, or perhaps disinterested in what he had to say. It made Spain's mouth curve into a small smile, regardless of the sting it caused to his cracked lip. The irony that his saviour had come in the form of his worst enemy was not lost on him. The further irony that it was an almost poetic counter to the fact that his current enemy had come in the form of his best friend, almost made him ignore his cracked ribs in order to laugh.

After a couple of stunted chuckles, Spain shook his head slowly, trying to clear the buzzing sound that they left behind.

'Thank you,' he muttered quietly.

England heard him. He could tell by the way that he seemed to stiffen behind him.

'I- don't go thinking that it was for you,' England growled, though the embarrassment in his voice told Spain that he was probably blushing. 'I'm here for Portugal, not you. And besides, I'm the only one in the world who can stop France, so naturally I'm going to try and push him back into his own shoddy little corner of the world.'

Somehow, Spain found the energy to pat England's hand. 'Of course, of course.' He had no idea how much of that was the truth, and how much of it was a lie, and neither did he care. Former arch- nemesis or not, he was thankful that England had come when he had.

There was a long moment of silence. Tired beyond belief, Spain began to doze.

'Portugal should be back soon,' England said suddenly, causing Spain to crack his eyes open a fraction. He scanned the camp, only then realising that his elder brother was nowhere in sight. He hummed in question, feeling too drained to actually speak.

'Gone out scouting,' England answered. 'Making sure that the area's secure.'

'Ah,' Spain responded.

They lapsed into silence, Spain too weary to maintain conversation, and England too far away with his thoughts. It was just as Spain began to doze off that England moved, shifting him out of his arms, and on to the bedroll that they were sitting upon with gentleness that Spain hadn't quite expected.

It made him smile as England rolled up what looked like a Portuguese officer's jacket, and placed it under his head. 'You're almost being cute, England. Where's the brute that I remember?' he joked weakly.

England coloured, seeming to take it as an accusation, rather than a compliment. 'Shut up, and get some more sleep, Spain,' he said gruffly, rising to a standing position. 'You're of no use to us in this state.'

Spain's smile tightened, iciness flooding his tired expression. He would certainly do as England had suggested, and when he awoke, refreshed, he would be ready to rain down his revenge.

He would be out for blood. He could already hear his axe singing for it.

* * *

_-1806-_

Prussia was confused.

On one hand, war was awesome, and he was awesome at war, so it seemed only natural that war would be the answer. On the other hand, it would mean helping out Austria again, and agreeing with that stuck- up, prissy aristocrat simply wasn't cool. Still, much as Prussia had liked France in the couple of times that he'd fought alongside him, to Prussia, the very idea of beheading kings was abhorrent. So when his shiny new king had declared that they would join the so- called _First Coalition_, Prussia had been all for it, because really, France might have been an okay guy, but knocking his Louis- the- Whatever's bonce off was just way too out there for Prussia to be cool with. Hell, he was the one who had gotten the ball rolling in the first place, way back in 1791 when, half drunk and still grieving for poor Old Fritz, he'd issued the Declaration of Pilnitz. Of course, the day after he'd done it, once he'd sobered up a bit, he'd realised that his clever idea had actually done little more than piss off a good part of France (what he tended to refer to as 'the crazy part').

Oops.

Not that he regretted being in the First Coalition, of course. Sure, it sucked to side with Austria over something for once, but France had been getting crazier, and crazier, and had, at one point, actually started to look like he would become a threat, if invasion could be counted as a threat.

Yeah. _That_ had pissed Prussia off. Sure, he'd been on England's side in the Seven Years war, but that was because France had sided with Austria first, and if he'd learnt anything about the crazy little continent that they lived upon, it was that France was to England, as Austria was to him: an intolerable pain in the arse. Despite everything though, he'd at least thought that he and France were, by and large, on the same general page, but no, France had gone and pulled a schizo act on everyone, and now he was in an entirely different book altogether.

So, he'd joined the First Coalition, because even he had to admit that maybe it was slightly possible that he couldn't handle France all on his own. The fact that England, and Spain had been in it too had helped to counter the fact that Austria had decided to rain on the party. Spain was, he had recalled from previous battles, a nice guy, a great deal of fun to be around, and when he wanted to be, a complete and utter lunatic when he had that big axe of his in his hand. England, on the other hand, was also a lot of fun to fight with at your side. He was a calculating, murderous bastard on the battlefield, and a mean, greedy son of a bitch off the battlefield, once he dropped the pretentious pussy act.

He had felt both furious, and ashamed when he'd been forced to stop. Sure, he had to admit that France had got crazy- powerful, fast, but even if he _had_ got France to agree to give up the lands that he had captured east of the Rhine, simply giving up was just not Prussia's style. And if it was anything, the Peace of Basel, had been giving up. What could he do though, fight his own boss? That simply wasn't his style (Old Fritz, he told himself countless times after the peace treaty had been signed, would not have stood for it. He probably would have, of course, but Prussia preferred think that he would have been able to have talk Fritz around), and so the deed was done, leaving a nasty, bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He'd wanted to punch France right in the face the moment that he'd given him that smug, and slightly deranged grin that he seemed to like wearing these past few years. Instead he had forced himself to look away, from France's satisfaction, Spain's despair and England's disgust.

At least Prussia hadn't been alone in being coerced into signing a bullshit, so- called "peace treaty". At least he was better off than Spain, that poor fucker. Portugal, on the other hand, had decided to stick with Team England as usual, and carried on fighting, and ignoring France's threats, even despite his brother's fall making his own position extremely dangerous. That point had annoyed Prussia to no end, considering how small, and crappy England, and Portugal both were. He was growing bigger, and stronger all the time, where Portugal and England had barely changed in a millennium. Still. They had the _ocean _and their precious navies, and weren't _they_ nifty little things? England's little boat war with France, and Spain at Trafalgar last year had been such a humiliating loss for the latter two that Prussia almost felt sorry for them. Well. Sorry for Spain, at least.

Boat wars, however, seemed very, very far away at that moment.

Truth be told, when he'd first heard about Austria, and Russia's defeat at Austerlitz, he'd howled with laughter until he'd almost lost consciousness. Now that the Holy Roman Empire had crumbled, it didn't seem so funny any more. Not that he'd ever liked the kid too much, but now he was all in parts, and calling himself the Confederation of the Rhine, and that just _had_ to be a complete headfuck.

Bah! Prussia shook himself out of his thoughts. He couldn't care less about the snivelling little bastard. What was far more important to him right now was the fact that France was camped right at his fucking doorstep. What was _important_ was the next decision that he made.

Was he ready for war with France, or could he appeal to the man's better nature, make promises, discuss?

He stared around the room, as if it would offer him some inspiration towards answering his quandary. He almost cringed when his eyes landed upon the jar that contained Poland's right eyeball, staring balefully at him from across the room. He knew that in taking Warsaw he'd face some kind of backlash, but Jesus fuck! Why Russia had given him such a creepy gift to go with it was beyond him. He'd come close in the past to just giving it back to Poland, just to make it stop looking at him like that, but then he would make himself remember Tannenburg and, with a grimace, would force himself to look at it. Remember how he'd got it, what it had taken. Think about Old Fritz, and what he would do.

He looked away, staring down at the paper at the paper, scanning England's not- at- all very polite demands that he help him out, goading him with a pointed remark that Prussia was acting like little more than a frightened lapdog.

Damn diplomacy to Hell, he smirked as he wrote his not- at- all very diplomatic response. If France didn't want him to come out to play, then he wouldn't have set up camp right on his fucking doorstep. And if there was one thing that Prussia simply couldn't do, it was back down from a challenge.

'This should be fun,' he grinned, sealing the letter shut with wax, his eagle emblazoned proudly upon it.

_Time for the Third Coalition to move aside,_ Prussia thought. _Because with me back in the game, it's about to become something much more awesome._

_

* * *

_

_-1809-_

Italy- no. V_eneziano _was worried. With everything being so crazy lately, he was finding it hard to catch his breath. Even his new name was causing him some confusion. Well. It wasn't a new name, but now that his brother was back with him, he wasn't Italy any more. They were both Italy. So calling _him_ Italy made no sense. Veneziano made much more sense. Probably because of Venice.

Italy- no no! Veneziano! _Veneziano_-

Veneziano was worried about his big brother.

When he'd first arrived at their new house a few months back, he'd been kicking, and screaming, throwing obscenities at big brother France as he was dragged into the villa, flanked by soldiers. Personally, Veneziano hadn't understood why his big brother was so upset. He'd been expecting his arrival for years now, as big brother France had promised, and was a little upset that his big brother hadn't seemed at all very enthusiastic to see him. The way in which he had fought against Veneziano's excited hug hurt his feelings even now.

'_Aren't you happy to be with me?' _Veneziano had cried_. 'Aren't you happy that we can finally be together, just as Grandpa wanted it?'_

'_As soon as Romano gets Sicily to stop fighting, you two can be together properly. "The Kingdom of Italy". How does that sound?'_ France had smiled that benevolent smile that It- Veneziano loved so much.

'_It sounds wonderful! Oh doesn't it sound wonderful, big brother?'_ Veneziano grinned, eyes brimming with joyful tears.

His big brother hadn't even looked at him. He had, instead, stared levelly at France. _'With a French king, no doubt,'_ he had sneered.

Veneziano remembered gasping at that point, remembered tugging on his brother's arm, admonishing him for his rudeness. France had looked equally unimpressed_. 'You need to remember who you're answering to, Romano. I'm not Spain, and I am not as willing to tolerate such blatant disregard.'_

Something about the way that his brother had stiffened had terrified Veneziano.

But he had simply remained silent.

His big brother hadn't talked much since that day. He spoke, from time to time, but Veneziano's memory held a precious image of a big brother who was always the first to speak his mind. It had been something that Veneziano had always admired in him. Now that it was almost gone, he found himself worrying constantly, and, beyond that, faintly disappointed.

Christmas had been an even more strained affair. In the past, Veneziano had spent several Christmases with his big brother, and though they had declined in frequency once Spain and Austria had gotten divorced, and despite the fact that his big brother had always ended up yelling at big brother Spain over something or other, he always recalled them being happy times. The Christmas of 1808, however, had not been happy. Veneziano had anticipated it to be a wonderful affair, and had put a lot of time and effort into making a perfect meal for them both, but when he called his brother for supper, he had refused to come. Eventually he had cried, sobbing about how unfair it was that he had tried so hard to make a good meal, and how much he had wanted to spend his first Christmas as a complete kingdom making happy memories. When his brother had eventually come out of his room, he had slapped him across the face.

'_You have no idea do you? None at all,'_ he had hissed with so much venom that, for a moment, Veneziano had been afraid of him.

'_I- I don't understand-'_

'_There's a war going on, and all you can care about is fucking food. People are dying, Veneziano!'_

'_Bu- but, I know, but I- I only wanted to make some g- good new memories with you, big brother,'_ he'd sobbed. He'd known all of that. He'd known. He'd only wanted to help make his brother smile again.

But his brother had only glared at him, eyes glinting with barely concealed rage, and sorrow. _'Grow up.'_

He'd closed the door then, leaving Veneziano to cry himself into hiccups, and finish off the meal alone. He didn't hear his brother speak again, until a few days later, early into the New Year, when he caught him grabbing a passing French soldier by the arm and demanding to know about something called Zaragoza. Veneziano wasn't sure if it was a place, or a person, but the way in which his brother looked sick at the reply the soldier gave him told him not to ask.

Christmas had been a month ago. Big brother France had come again today, asking him if he could get his brother to get Sicily to back down again. Veneziano knew that he probably wouldn't but he promised big brother France that he would do his very best.

He found his brother late in the evening, sitting alone on the beach, staring quietly out into the west. Cautiously, Veneziano joined him, sitting beside him slowly, so as not to disturb the sand too much. Then he too fell silent, watching the sun sinking leisurely into the Mediterranean.

'It's so pretty, don't you think?' Veneziano asked, turning sparkling eyes towards his brother. His brother didn't return the look, but responded with a hum of agreement.

'I wish that I could stay here forever,' he continued. 'I'm so happy to be with you.'

His brother said nothing, staring out across the waves, searching for something that Veneziano couldn't see. 'A- are you looking for Sicily?' he asked. When he received no answer, he took a deep breath, and tried to keep his promise. 'You know… if you get Sicily to stop fighting, then we can become a proper kingdom. Wouldn't that be nice? Yes? Big brother?'

Finally, his brother turned to look at him. He looked tired, Veneziano noted with alarm. He looked dog tired, but Veneziano waited patiently, knowing that he would speak, silently urging him on with a gentle expression.

'No.'

Veneziano's face fell. 'Big brother… big brother please. There's no reason to fight.'

'I have every reason to fight,' his brother whispered, voice raw with some sort of emotion. 'I promised him. I promised him that I would help him. He's useless, and he can't do anything on his own, and I-' his voice caught in his throat, and he clutched at his knees. For a moment, to Veneziano, he looked like a child again.

'Who? Who are you talking about, big brother?' Veneziano asked, voice gentle at the sight of his brother's unshed tears.

'And now England's going home, and he's all alone. And those people…' he stopped, burying his head in his knees, shaking with quiet sobs.

In a flash, Veneziano was at his side, hands grabbing him, and holding him close, babbling comforting nothings to him.

'I want to go home,' his brother sobbed mournfully. Veneziano thought that he felt his heart stop.

'But you are home, big brother. You're home. With me,' he cried, rocking his brother backwards and forwards in his arms.

'Not like this,' his brother whispered. 'Not like this.'

* * *

_-1799-_

'I don't think that this is going very well, England,' Russia said in an almost sing- song voice as he jabbed a stick into their campfire.

England watched him, a deadpan expression upon his face. 'No. _Really?_ I hadn't noticed.'

Russia pouted at him in what was supposed to be a cute way. England found it creepy for a grown man to pull such an expression. 'There's no need to be a meanie, England. I was just telling the truth.'

'I'm not paying you to tell me the truth,' England muttered.

Russia puffed out his cheeks, blowing a short puff of air. Then, after a moment, he spoke up again. 'I'm doing_ much_ better in Italy.'

England stared at him for a long moment, feeling vaguely insulted. 'The people in Italy are more willing to fight back than the Dutch are,' he explained.

'Ahhh!' Russia said, as if he'd won some sort of game 'but you said that the Dutch would be happy to see us.'

'That's what I was led to believe by William.'

'The Orange man?'

'The Orange man.'

Russia was silent for an entire five seconds before he spoke up again. 'But, England. The Dutch aren't happy to see us. They're fighting for France.'

England rubbed tiredly at his eyes. If Russia didn't have an endless supply of soldiers stored up his sleeves, he swore that he would- 'Again, Russia. All facts that I am very much aware of, thank you.'

'You're welcome,' Russia smiled back.

Unfortunately, Russia was right in his brilliant assumptions. England had been too hasty, assuming that the Dutch, like the Italians, and the Swiss, would be just as ready to rise up against their French oppressors, and rejoin the coalition. This had, of course, been very much encouraged by William the… Whatever (so many bloody Williams), former Prince of Orange, who had assured himself, and old George that the Dutch would be positively _scrambling_ to rally to the call of Orange. England could only thank God that he'd had the foresight to make it clear that this was an expeditionary force, and not a military invasion. It had kept France off his back a bit, though they had the odd scuffle from time to time (and really, since when was that out of the ordinary?), but still. It had cost him a bloody fortune to hire out some of Russia's troops, and now it looked like it had been completely wasted.

_Roll on the Nineteenth Century_, England thought bitterly as he wiped at his tired eyes with a gloved hand. 1799 had been crap. Dirty, dusty sieges of cities that he didn't care about with that idiotic Ottoman Empire, and tramping about on a so- called "expeditionary" trip around the Netherlands were simply not his style. Especially not when Austria, Russia, and Switzerland were doing a right proper job of shoving France back into the West, while he was stuck doing sod all. It was embarrassing to say the least.

'Next year can't fucking come soon enough,' he muttered glumly, reaching for his silver flask, ever- secure at his hip, and taking a long swig of gin out of it.

Russia stabbed at something with his stick in agreement.

'… What was that?' England asked. He didn't know why he asked, since he was fairly sure that he didn't want to know.

'A little froggy. Look!' Russia grinned, waggling the dead creature in the air, and making its legs bounce.

England grimaced and returned to his drink.

It was going to be a long, long, _long _few months.

* * *

_I might hasten to add in this part that Romano is certainly not against the idea of forming a single nation with Veneziano, in fact, his sudden growth spurt is a physical manifestation of his desire to seek, and gain independence, which I've tried to include flashes of in this story. However, Italy at the time was nothing more than a puppet state constructed by France, and not truly a united nation. As a result, Romano wants nothing to do with it, with Sicily remaining separate, and staunchly in opposition to France. However, this period of time did begin the sequence of events that would eventually lead to the unification of Italy._


	3. Chapter 3

ooo

* * *

_-1808-_

The house was so quiet.

In truth, though he had always complained about the lack of silence and order in his household, Austria found that the reality of it was desperately lonely.

For so long, his life had been in constant upheaval, managing the Holy Roman Empire, making sure that Italy stayed out of trouble, putting up with Spain, fending off Prussia's irritating advances, bickering with Switzerland. Constant hassle, and noise, all concentrated within the walls of his home. And yet, in the harsh light day, the loss of such things was felt keenly, a sharp pang of regret filling his heart and making his chest hurt.

Everything was such a mess. The Holy Roman Empire was gone, the damage to him irreparable. The boy left in his place was a wide- eyed, fragile thing, unsure of who, or what he was. Italy was gone, leaving his home some years ago with his hand tightly clasped around France's, a wide, confused smile on his face, head filled with swirling thoughts of finally returning home. Even Prussia was at risk now, badly beaten back, Berlin taken from him after only nineteen days, and his newly acquired territory snatched back.

Austria missed them all. Even Prussia.

Everything he'd known, and trusted for centuries had fallen in only a decade. England was doing his best to stay strong against France, but his interests lay in Iberia, not in the East. Sweden likewise, was refusing to back down, but his interests laid solely in the North, all focus entirely upon Finland. It was a sad way for the Fourth Coalition to end up, especially since Austria could not boast to have been a member.

Damn Austerlitz! The word still tasted like bile upon his tongue. It was a scar, still healing upon his chest, the constant itch driving some sort of simmering, molten indignation beneath his calm façade. It would not be his final action in this conflict. He would not allow it.

The clink of bone china distracted him from his thoughts, startling him. Good. He needed a clear mind, and an impassive face if he was to strike back at France. No use rushing headlong into these things. Prussia had, as always, taught him that extremely effectively. What he needed to do was be subtle about it. His army was already beginning to go through the process of reform, his treasury weighing up how much they could afford to spend on war. It was all kept secret, of course. He had no one to rely on these days. Not with nations falling, and defecting all around him. He was alone once again, but not weak, and more importantly, not stupid.

All he needed was a few more months.

'Fetch me some paper, and a quill,' he snapped to one of the serving women who had been standing silently, awaiting his command.

In a moment, and a refreshing flurry of movement, a small pile of paper, and a quill had been placed before him at his desk. Without a second thought, he leant down, snatching up the quill and dabbing it into his ever- ready pot of ink, readying himself to write another letter to his top general.

'Would you like some more tea, Master Austria?' the maid asked gently.

Blinking, he sat back, the familiarity of the voice strangely comforting to him, compelling him to meet her gaze.

Hungary smiled back, a soft quirk of her lips, expression oddly serene, and patient.

Austria stared at her for a long time, the look in his eyes shifting from one of surprise, to cool calculation. Hungary coloured, forcing herself not to fidget under the scrutiny.

'Why are you still here?' he asked finally.

Hungary looked astonished at the question, and perhaps even oddly hurt. 'Do you not wish for me to be, Master Austria?'

Austria considered the question. 'Yes,' he said. Strangely, he found that he meant it. She was the last piece of a family that he had pictured in his memory, and she was still here. Still reminding him that he wasn't quite as desperately alone as he felt. 'I am…' he flushed, looking away uncomfortably. 'I'm glad that you are still here.'

Hungary blushed at that, though her smile threatened to blossom once again. 'So am I… Master Austria,' she added.

'Hungary,' he said slowly, looking back towards her, eyes sharper, and more intense through the lenses of his spectacles. 'Do you know what I am planning to do?'

'I… can take a good guess,' she admitted.

'What will you do?'

She stared at him levelly, and for the briefest moment, they were almost equals. Then Hungary blushed and looked away, as if remembering her place. 'I will stay here,' she answered.

'By my side?' Austria pushed.

'… By your side,' Hungary confirmed.

Austria was convinced.

'Pull up a chair then,' he said, trying to act nonchalant. 'And we'll discuss what I expect to happen.'

At the suddenly coltish way Hungary leapt away from his desk, and scurried away to the other side of the room in order to grab at the first chair that she could see, Austria actually found himself fighting back a smile.

* * *

_-1807-_

England watched impassively as Prussia sped off, new gun safely in hand (_'No hard feelings,' _he'd said. '_Y' know. About the Berlin Decree. I had fuck all to do with it._'), before shoving his hand back into one of the pockets of his brown, woolen coat in order to check his new pocket watch. With a huff, he slipped it back into his pocket, annoyed at himself when he realised that he'd allocated too much time to Prussia, and that his next meeting wasn't for another fifteen minutes.

His sigh was visible in the cold November air, and he shivered, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he leant against the wall of the miserable alleyway that he had decided upon earlier that day. Still. He had to laugh at Prussia's earlier words. Well, not so much at Prussia's words, as the Berlin Decree in general.

France, being a royal (or perhaps _un_royal would be more fitting) idiot, as usual, had honestly thought that it would work. Had honestly believed that banning the rest of the continent from trading with England, would actually _damage_ England. Had honestly not even considered that England would immediately respond by drawing upon the vast resources of his colonies instead. In the end, much to England's glee, France had ended up hurting the rest of Europe with the trading ban, more than he had hurt England. Because Europe needed England's goods, and they weren't about to let something like a silly ban hold them back from suiting their needs. So what if England wasn't allowed to be as overt about it as he used to be? Smuggling wasn't a far cry from privateering, and damn if he hadn't been a fan-fucking-_tastic_ pirate in his day, so really, it had been a pretty easy decision to make. Spit in France's face, possibly make some money, and have some fun while he was at it. All only made possible through France's own legislation. To someone of England's disposition (wherein his mean streak was wider than the English channel. In fact, it was less of a mean streak, and more of a _mean nine-hundred-and-sixty-three-mile-round-journey-from-Newcastle-to-Penzance_) it was delightfully amusing.

Better still, business was booming.

Not that he didn't need it. England was an obstinate bastard at the best of times, but he wasn't under any illusions. France was strong –almost ridiculously so- and with Prussia crushed in one fell swoop, Austria humiliated, Russia bowing, Sweden's worries elsewhere, and Spain still firmly under control, England had been left to go it alone. Crushing Denmark's fleet had helped to ensure that France wouldn't try anything funny with boats again for a while, but that still left the land. Without any support coming from the east England was, strategically, stuffed. Not that that would stop him, of course. He'd experienced hundreds of years of war with France already. He'd sort it out. Eventually. It was just taking a little more time than he'd anticipated.

If England was entirely honest with himself though (and he rarely was), this war felt absolutely nothing like his past fights with France. It hadn't felt right since day one.

England knew civil war. He'd had around ten himself, and what he _did _know about them was that they fucked with your head. In most of them, he'd just had some pretty crazy mood swings, and the odd migraine, but the worst ones had sent him absolutely fucking _loopy_. So yes, England knew about civil war. He could have written a book collection on it, but _France's_ civil war? That had been worse than worse.

It wasn't like England liked the guy, or cared about him particularly, but going to war with him was something oddly familiar and, while frustrating, almost exhilarating. They'd spent the best part of five hundred years locked in a morbid game of chess with far too many pieces, and far too high stakes, but it was something habitual, almost natural to the both of them. This war, however, felt nothing like that. England had seen it coming, watched with growing horror as France lost himself more, and more by the day, but he'd done nothing to stop it, could have done nothing to stop it. The battle had been internal, and when France had re-emerged, somehow he wasn't _France_ any more.

It had thrown England. Naturally, he'd responded to France's actions with hostility, but it felt entirely _different _to all of the times before. He could see it in everyone else's eyes, especially Spain's. That feeling that somehow they'd reacted too late, that they hadn't realised in time that something horribly different had occurred. England had spent many nights at his desk, clawing at his hair, and gritting his teeth, analysing everything that he could have possibly done, feeling some ridiculous level of responsibility even though he'd had his own issues with America to deal with. In the end though, he'd come to accept the situation, resigning to end it as soon as possible, for everyone's –especially his own- benefit.

The most odd thing that had arisen out of the situation however, was something that England barely even dared to acknowledge- he found himself missing France. It was utterly stupid, and illogical, of course. He hated the guy, had been his sworn enemy for most of his living memory, and yet…

And yet France was, he was loath to admit, the one consistency that he'd had in his life. Everything around him shifted and changed like the waves of the ocean, and yet France had always been there, static at the edge of his vision, annoying him, and tormenting him, yes, but stable. Waking up in the morning, knowing that France would still be on his doorstep, waiting to piss him off at the first opportunity that he could was the most certain thing in his entire life. Eternal nemesis France might have been, but being an enemy with someone for _that _long, and dedicating so much energy towards him for so much of his life well… well it made France almost, sort of a friend. Sort of.

England coloured at the thought, and dismissed it as quickly as it had come, blaming the cold autumn air. Point was; he didn't miss France. He simply missed having someone to focus his hatred upon. Because the guy he was fighting at the moment, while he looked, and sounded like France, wasn't the France that he knew and hated, so the sooner that France went back to normal, the sooner England could relax and happily go back to hating France. And then everything would feel all right again.

Shaking his head to clear it of his wondering thoughts, England irritably checked his watch once again, cursing at the Italian brat's tardiness, and cursing Spain even more for probably being the cause of it. He wasn't keen on dealing with him any way, considering how close he was to Spain. If word got out that he was doing business with him, then France would crack down on trading even more, and profits would likely plummet.

It was just as he was considering leaving that the brat came barrelling into the alleyway.

'England, sir!' he panted, almost folded in two as he tried to regain his breath. 'Sir. I am so sorry for being late. I couldn't sneak away from Spain- the controlling freak- and-'

'Not interested,' England cut in, already starting to walk of. 'You can get your supplies elsewhere. I won't deal with nations who won't take my generosity seriously.'

'But, England sir-'

'I'm taking a huge risk for your benefit, and you've just proven to me that it's not worth it,' England interrupted him, a small part of him wanting to hurt the child's feelings, lingering resentment over his close relationship with Spain overriding his better judgement.

The boy frowned for a moment, hurt flashing across his face, before it was replaced with a look of urgency. 'England, sir! Don't you know what's happened?'

England felt his blood run cold. 'What do you mean "what's happened"?'

'France has sent an army into Spain's lands!'

England stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. 'Since when is that new? Spain's his personal lapdog these days.'

'No!' the boy responded, shaking his head fiercely. 'You don't understand! France is marching on _Portugal._'

England's face went slack with shock. '_What_-'

'He says that it's because Portugal won't stop trading with you. He wants to split him up, and share out the pieces between himself and Spain! Spain's joined him for now but-'

England was already gone, marching swiftly towards the direction of the harbour, mind focused coolly on numerous calculations. Money. Troops. _Boats_. Timing. Getting to Lisbon as soon as possible. Evacuating the royal family. Fortifications. Ammunition.

Beneath it all, a quite rage had been stirred, thumping with the beat of his heart in his ears. His one friend in this miserable, stinking world was under threat. Under threat for his loyalty to England, staying by his side, regardless of the danger that it put him in. And France had the audacity—

At the thought of the upcoming bloodshed, he smiled savagely. He made quick work of seeking his ship out in the docks, boarding it, and shrugging out of his coat, tossing it carelessly to one side.

'Bring me my jacket,' he snapped to a young deck hand, who immediately stopped gawking at him, and ran off to do as he was bid.

'Captain?' his First Mate questioned.

'Haul anchor, lads,' he shouted, taking his jacket from the boy who had hurriedly returned. 'And raise the flag,' he added as he began to button it.

'Captain?'

England grinned at them, and if the crew hadn't known who he really was at that moment, they would have unanimously thrown him overboard for being demented.

'We're going on a trip, lads,' he explained, skipping up the stairs, and heading towards the wheel with a flourish. Understanding somewhat, the helmsman obliged, stepping aside mutely, and allowing England to seize the wheel.

'Where to, Captain?' the Second Mate asked.

'Well, first of all, we need to head home. Get all of the boys together, so to speak,' he responded, leaning bodily against the wheel. Then he grinned again. 'After that? Well… I wanted to go and see what Lisbon was like this time of year.'

* * *

_-1812-_

The Duchy of Warsaw reached forwards, patting his chestnut mare softly on the neck, steadying her as she tossed her head and danced slightly. Something in the air had made her anxious, and the possibility that she might rear was not a remote one.

He could not blame her, staring out across the border as she was, the wind blowing in from Russia's lands feeling unnaturally cold for a June day. He turned away, looking briefly to the north, eyes carrying a faraway look, quietly burning with a distant longing.

'This will be a glorious victory for us both, _Warsaw_,' France said, sitting astride his own mount to his left.

The Duchy of Warsaw (soon to be the Kingdom of Poland once again. It was only a matter of time now, just a matter of being patient) turned back to face him, a grim smile upon his lips. 'It sure will. When do we start?'

'Soon, _Warsaw_, soon,' France soothed him.

'And Liet- Lithuania?' he urged, correcting himself only as a second thought.

'Do not stress yourself, my friend,' France smiled. 'My armies are already moving towards Vilnius to help him fight back against Russia. Soon he will be as free as you are now.'

The Duchy of Warsaw allowed his shoulders to relax slightly, though he was too world- weary to be fully relieved. 'And when you've helped him take Wilno back for himself, you'll totally announce that I'm a kingdom again, right? That we're both a kingdom again?'

'Of course, of course,' France said with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'I've been considering something like "_The General Confederation of the Kingdom of Poland_." Doesn't that sound wonderfully grand?'

The Duchy of Warsaw paused for a long moment, silently repeating the name to himself in his head. Okay so, it was a bit long- winded, and "confederation" didn't sound quite as cool as "commonwealth" but… to be a Kingdom once again, to have his true name back, to have Liet by his side again, ruling their peaceful lands, and harvesting mushrooms in the forests… it made his eyes burn, and his throat constrict with longing.

'Yeah,' he replied finally, voice a little too shaky for his liking. He cleared his throat. 'Yeah that does sound kinda grand.'

'I am good to my friends, _Warsaw_. You should know that,' France said with a fond smile.

The Duchy of Warsaw smiled back, albeit in a slightly forced manner. France had been good to him, he _had_ been but still… he had to worry just the slightest bit over how long it was taking him to formally announce that he was a Kingdom again. He'd been liberated five years ago now, but still his bosses were French, and Dutch. Sure, they were a Hell of a lot better than Russia, but still… he'd been a good friend to France. He'd provided not only troops, but also food, and while he appreciated being invited to stand with France at the head of the march on Russia, the promise of vengeance didn't quite overwhelm the nagging worry that he _still_ didn't have any sort of international recognition, or representation.

'So when are we kicking Russia's ass?' he said instead, trying to lighten his own mood.

'Soon, _Warsaw_. We have him outnumbered. It's only a matter of time before we take Moscow. If you want, I can make him apologise to you,' France smirked.

'The only thing that I want from that fat bastard is to see him on his knees,' the Duchy of Warsaw hissed, fingers flexing around his reins. 'And when he has been humiliated, and shamed, I will take Liet, and leave him to rot.'

'Of course, my dear,' France muttered, staring out across the border, eyes fixed on where Moscow lay, far beyond the horizon. 'Next year you will be Poland once more, and you and your little friend will live happily in my new, unified Europe.'

The Duchy of Warsaw turned to stare at France in amazement, daring to hope for the first time in a long, long time. He felt his throat tighten again, and tears threaten to spill from his eyes.

'God bless you, France,' he whispered hoarsely.

France smiled back at him. 'By next January, Russia will have fallen. This I promise you.'

The Duchy of Warsaw nodded, wiping at his teary eyes with the back of his gloved hand. Then, after clearing his throat, he straightened up in his saddle, and glanced back at the Grande Armée, spotting his own troops easily among the mass of soldiers.

Russia would fall, he told himself. Russia _would_ fall, the world could go back to normal, and scholars would soon be writing that 1812 was the year that Poland returned to his rightful place on the map once again.

* * *

_-1813-_

Spain tossed in his sleep, mumbling something under his breath. When he settled down once again Prussia, and England returned their attention to their individual maps, studying them in the light from the campfire.

They sat in silence for a few moments longer, before Prussia settled his down across his lap with a sigh.

'I don't get it,' he said.

'You don't get _what_?' England answered, sounding only half- interested.

'_Him_,' he replied, jerking his head over to where Spain was sleeping fitfully. 'Come to think on it, you too.'

'What about me?' England responded, setting his own map down, and staring at Prussia through narrowed eyes.

'Well, you two and your dumb kids,' Prussia sneered. 'Look at the state they get you in. You adored that America kid, and he stabbed you in the back and completely fucked you up, and Spain's fucking _obsessed_ with _his_ kid, and look at him now, practically crying in his sleep. What's the fucking point?'

England glared hotly at him, not appreciating Prussia's salt in a still very raw wound. 'What's _your_ fucking point?'

Prussia looked honestly surprised. 'What? I'm asking an honest question here. You two both find these little kiddies, put your heart and soul into raising them, and then shit goes wrong, and you get your heart broken. It just seems so fucking silly to me. We're meant to be alone. We're stronger that way, and yet you, and Spain broke that huge fucker of a rule by getting too close to another nation, trusting them too much. I mean, fine, I know that you and Spain are in different situations. Your kid got too big for his boots, and Spain's pussy kid got himself taken away, and yeah, it sucks to be you, but still... you two should never have been in that situation in the first place.'

England stared at him, silent, and thoughtful. Prussia had expected to get a fist to the face, rather than an actual answer, but there England was, actually considering his question.

And then he sighed, and it was a heavy, regretful sound, but beneath it, Prussia swore that he could detect a strange fondness.

'You won't understand until you experience it yourself, having someone who looks up to you, and trusts you, and needs you. It's terrifying at first, but it's also so, so nice. To be important to someone else, to have the responsibility of a tiny life in your hands knowing that it's your duty to help it grow… it's strangely exhilarating. For most of us, we will never know what it is to be a father, but to be given the opportunity to try something like it, to be _like_ a father, or a big brother… it's precious. I made mistakes with America, I admit, and I worry even now that I could make the same mistakes with Canada, but even so… I'd never regret finding him, and looking after him- looking after them _both_- even if I would change a lot of things that I did.'

Prussia stayed silent, the words shaking him slightly. After a moment he sneered once again, though it seemed less confident than before. 'Oh well. Looks like Canada still needs you to look after him.'

England flinched, and looked away.

Prussia glanced at Spain once again, and shook his head slowly. Idiots. They were nothing more than idiots. Nations were meant to be alone.

Snorting softly, he picked up his map, continuing his earlier study. 'I'd kill myself before I let anyone call _me_ "big brother",' he muttered.

* * *

_-1808-_

Sweden was not an emotional man, and he was not a naïve man. He had guessed from the start that fighting Russia would result in a losing battle. The same, sadly, could not have been said for his king who had too much faith in Sweden, and England both.

England had helped, of course, lessening the pressure that Denmark was putting on him, but Sweden was finding it hard to keep up with Russia alone, without France, and Denmark worrying him from the south. With France in control of the Baltic Sea, there was little that England could do anyway, tipping the favour ever more away from Sweden.

It wasn't that Sweden was fearful for himself. He'd spent so many years at war, and he was used to it, resigned to it almost. To say that he didn't care about himself would have been incorrect. He _did_ care about himself, but he'd been around for such a long time that he knew he'd find some way to be all right in the end. The problem was that this time, things were different. He would have been able to handle the entire situation, and any resulting loss much better, if it hadn't been for Finland.

The younger nation sat next to him, tired expression almost undetectable beyond his blackened eye, and cut lip. He was pale, Sweden noted with great dissatisfaction. Thin too. He didn't smile much these days, becoming increasingly withdrawn as Sweden, and Russia fought ceaselessly over his body.

Sweden watched him with weary eyes, pitying him, desperately wanting to reach out and pull him to him, cradle him protectively, guard him from the hurt…

He didn't.

He knew that to Finland, his expression was utterly unreadable, but, frustrating as that was, Sweden hoped that, somehow, Finland might know how sorry he was that this had ever happened.

Pride meant a great deal to Sweden, more so than others might have thought. He'd agreed with his king when he had refused to submit to Russia, and France's agreement for him to join the continental system. It wasn't best for him, and, more importantly, he would never give in to bullying, having put up with Denmark for more time than he liked to recall.

And yet now, as he considered what the cost might be, he questioned whether any of this had been worth it. If he lost Finland… He had to look away, heart aching at the very thought, but knowing that Finland might misread his intense expression as something else. Might drive him further away.

Sweden stared sombrely into the crackling flames of their campfire. That was the saddest part to this whole debacle, of course. Deep down on some level, he knew that Finland wanted to go. His shy companion, never entirely honest- never daring to be- even as his body was brutally taken from him piece by piece by a foreign invader, had had the seeds of something new planted into his thoughts. Russia, cold, and unrelenting, still offered something that Sweden never had: a level of freedom, of _independence_ that Sweden had not allowed. Yet still he was here at his camp. He fought at Sweden's side, remaining with him out of fear of the unknown, and perhaps some sort of gentle feelings of friendship, and fondness.

It wasn't going to last though, Sweden knew that now. Even if, by some miracle, he beat back Russia, and avoided confrontation with Denmark, and France, Finland was slipping through his fingers.

It was a thought that terrified him. He needed to clench his hands together to stop them from shaking. A life without Finland with him… it made him want to vomit. They'd been together for such a long time, living through joy and sadness, though wins and losses, through peace and war… it was hard to remember being without him. Even under Denmark's rule, they'd been together, had run away together… it was…

Sweden swallowed heavily. He would not give up. He would not stand back and let go of the only person in his whole life that mattered to him. The only person who had ever smiled at him like he was more than just a nation, who came close to understanding him. Even if Finland wanted to go, he would not let him, at least not without getting him ready for living in the world alone, slowly guiding him until he could stand strongly on his own two feet.

'Sweden, sir?'

Sweden looked up, surprised out of his thoughts.

'Mmmm?' he answered.

Finland smiled at him, though it was feigned. He tried to hide his wince as his cut lip stung. 'You look a little unwell- I mean today has been tough!' he backtracked nervously. 'Would you like to get some rest? I can keep watch for a while.'

Sweden stared at him for a long moment.

His mind buzzed with things that he wanted to say, jaw tightening and relaxing with the urge to speak. Most of all, however, he wanted –_longed_- to say just one thing above all else.

Instead, he simply said ''K' and leant back upon his bedroll, pulling the cover over him, and closing his eyes, suddenly feeling bone weary.

_Please be here when I wake up_, he thought, clutching at his blanket, and drifting off into a fretful sleep.

* * *

...


	4. Chapter 4

Welcome to the final part.

* * *

_-1796-_

'How _could_ you?' Romano screeched incredulously, whacking Spain on the arm. The resulting wince –genuine hurt, must have hit a wound- made Romano feel guilty, but he was too horrified to stop and apologise. Sure, Spain was weaker than he used to be, but it had never occurred to him that he could be so stupid as to side with France.

'I had to, Roma,' Spain responded, using the gentle tone that Romano hated so much. The tone that always meant that Spain was lying to stop him from worrying.

'You fucking_ lost_, Spain! And as if signing some shitty, so-called "peace treaty" wasn't enough, you have to go and fucking join him. What's going to happen to us?' he demanded. He honestly didn't mean to sound so cruel, but he was just so terrified. Spain was meant to be strong, and look after them both, because Romano couldn't do it alone. He couldn't.

He felt sick. Shit, he was going to throw up.

Spain watched him with an infuriatingly understanding expression. Romano hated him all the more for it, wishing with all of his heart that Spain would get angry or… or something.

'I didn't lose, Roma,' he said again. 'I signed a peace treaty. We made peace. That's good isn't it?'

'Don't patronise me,' Romano hissed. 'I'm not a stupid, fucking kid any more, Spain. I get the difference between being forced into something against your will, and signing a genuine peace treaty! England, and the others were going to help us, and now you're on France's side?'

'Romano…'

'He has my brother, and now he has you, and I'm just supposed to fucking accept that?'

'Romano, I had to-'

'Why did you_ have_ to?' he ranted, hands flailing wildly. 'If you'd just held on a bit longer, you wouldn't have had to humiliate yourself. You wouldn't have had to join France's side, because you can't honestly tell me that you actually fucking agree with him when you were at war with him only_ last year_! When he fucking _invaded_.'

'R_omano_!' Spain's voice boomed, stopping Romano's rant dead. Romano stared at him with wide eyes, shocked, though it faded the moment that Spain winced again. He was still injured from before; his wounds were healing so slowly. How could he side with the man that did this to him? It upset Romano more than he cared to admit.

'Romano,' Spain said again, much more quietly, and gently than before. 'He said, that if I join him, he'll concede parts of your house to me, maybe even little Ita's house too. I know it's not much, but it's the only way that I can look after you, and perhaps even your brother. It'll keep France off my back too. If I take advantage of what he's offering me, then I might be able to reclaim some of what I've lost. I'm sorry, it's the best that I can do.'

He was sorry. Romano could see it clearly on his face, and in his eyes.

'Y- you idiot-'

'I know, I know,' Spain smiled sadly.

'What are we going to do?' Romano implored, gripping onto Spain's shirt, holding on to him as if he were a lifeline.

Spain took a deep breath, releasing it in a puff of air. 'Well,' he said. 'I suppose I'll just do what France tells me to while I get my strength back-'

'And what about _me_?' Romano interrupted, eyes wide, and fearful.

Spain smiled at that, lifting his hand with some effort, to run his fingers through Romano's hair, careful to avoid that one curl. 'You need to keep your head low, and voice down. Think you can do that?'

'I'm not a child,' Romano scowled, even as he leant slightly into Spain's gentle ministrations on his hair.

'Okay,' Spain said with a smile.

Romano was silent for a while, before hesitantly speaking up once again. 'When- when you're strong again, will you fight back?'

Spain considered his question carefully, before nodding once. 'When I am stronger, when the time is right, I will reclaim my freedom, yes.'

'And will you come for me, if I get taken away?'

'Yes.'

Romano nodded silently, throwing himself impulsively into Spain's arms, pressing up against his chest, a budding nation, but still a child in so many ways.

France found them in much the same position when he entered Spain's bedroom several minutes later.

Raising an eyebrow at the sight, he gazed upon them as the younger one pulled away, blushing fiercely. France observed the scene with some surprise. He had suspected Spain of strange tastes for quite some time now. Perhaps he had been correct all along.

'If you wish for the boy to stay for the next part, I have no objections,' he stated.

Spain's head drooped tiredly, leaving him looking defeated. 'No. He will leave.'

'But, Spain!' Romano protested.

Spain's head shot up, and he fixed Romano with one of the sternest looks that he had ever given him. 'Out, Romano!' he snapped. Romano felt tears swell in his eyes, flooding his vision. _Lying bastard!_ He thought, outraged. _That lying bastard he_- 'Roma,' Spain said again, more gently this time, expression apologetic, and resigned. 'Why don't you head down to the kitchens, yeah? Go and see if cook will make you something nice for dinner?'

'You heard him, run along now, boy,' France added.

Spain gave him a dark look, before returning his gaze to Romano to give him a shaky smile.

Shoulders sagging in defeat, Romano's anger evaporated into nothing, and reluctantly, he did as he was bid, leaving Spain's bedroom, and closing the door behind him with a click.

It was only an hour later, as he was throwing pebbles into the lake by the villa that he realised why Spain had wanted him to leave the room. The tears sprang up, and overflowed in an instant, distant promises echoing in his memory. Horrified, he sank to his knees, dropping the pebbles that he had collected to the floor, as he reached up to grab at his hair instead. That stupid bastard! That stupid, stupid bastard! He was always doing such stupid things to protect him, because he couldn't do anything himself. He was fucking useless, his own promise to protect Spain back ringing sharply in his ears, jarring, and taunting, reminding him that he hadn't been able to do a Goddamned thing.

He sobbed until he was dry heaving, feeling small, and pathetic. The world was changing forever, and if Spain couldn't stop it, who could? Romano could do nothing. He was too weak, and too insignificant, he had proved that when he had been forced to watch Spain fall, forced to watch the man who had raised him cast aside his pride in order to become little more than a puppet. Anything that Romano could try to do would be ineffectual, and if he got hurt, then Spain would only become even sadder.

_Do your best, Romano_, Spain had told him once. Romano had snorted derisively, asking what would become of him if his best wasn't good enough. Spain had only smiled and told him that his best would always be good enough for _him._

It was strange... Spain was, he knew, not a good person. He was capable of evil, and had committed great sins, wild heresy in moments of madness that he carried within him like a lurking plague. And yet, much as Romano knew that it should matter to him, it didn't. Much as he knew that he should not grieve for the fall of another great tyrant, he did.

He was a man of sin in so many ways, but he was also the only man who had ever made Romano feel like he was worth anything at all. A man who loved openly, and lived life to its fullest. A man whose bloodstained hands were capable of remarkable gentleness. A man who Romano would not see suffer under the rule of France.

_Do your best, Romano._

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing his tears away, and sniffling. Honestly, he was supposed to be growing up, and here he was crying like a child.

It was time to grow up. He was convinced of it, now more than ever before. He would do his best, and if his best wasn't good enough, at least it would be written in the history books that he had stood firm against a great tyrant, while the rest of his kin fell around him. At least then, if he were cut down, he wouldn't die a coward.

* * *

-1815-

If anyone had asked England how he would have chosen to spend the night that he won the war, he would have scoffed and answered with something along the lines of "_getting shitfaced, because I deserve it_."

He would have believed that, even until that very morning as he had readied himself, knowing that it was the final stand for both himself, and France. Everything had come down to one, defining moment and England had dared to think of the future for the first time in a long time, even as he had stared down an army that matched his own in might, and grim determination.

England was sparing with the truth, but he was not delusional. It had been a close thing, much more so than he would have liked. Without Prussia there to turn the tide, he couldn't honestly say that he would have won. Trust France to make it such a climatic affair. It could have been such a nice, boring battle, but no. It had been a heart- stopping scramble in a field of mud, with neither side being quite sure if they were winning or not.

God. The more that he thought about it, the more he felt like having a heart attack over it.

Prussia, who was sitting next to him, quietly humming to himself as he jabbed at their campfire with a stick, seemed not to notice England's belated worrying. Instead, a good while after they had finished talking, he made a loud, frustrated sound, and threw the stick down, distracting England from his thoughts.

'Goddamn it, England!' he growled. 'I can't get your stupid, fucking marching song out of my head!'

England's mouth curved into a small smirk. '_The British Grenadiers_?' he chuckled. 'Yes, that one is sort of catchy.'

'You've been playing it for over hundred years now. Can't you pick a new tune already, Jesus! It's like, whether I'm with you, or against you, all I can ever hear is that fucking song when you're around. _Dah dah dah._'

England couldn't help his laugh. He was bone weary, tired from too many years of war, and barely believing that it was finally all over. He couldn't concentrate on one thing for more than a moment, too many things requiring his immediate attention, too much planning for a new, and immediate future.

And yet Prussia would always be Prussia, and that was so overwhelmingly comforting to England in that moment, that he found himself uttering his first genuine laugh in years.

'That's right. Revel in my pain,' Prussia groaned. His grin was good-natured, however, and almost friendly.

'I always do, Prussia,' England chuckled. 'Oddly it's more satisfying when you're on my side.'

'Tch, sadist,' Prussia snorted.

'What does that make you then?' England smirked.

Prussia fell silent, thinking it over as he flattened a piece of grass with the toe of his boot. 'I dunno,' he said after a moment. ''spose I _must _be a masochist on some level if I willingly joined your side again.'

'My side keeps winning though,' England pointed out.

'Only because I keep graciously saving your scrawny little arse, and inspiring your poor redcoats with my awesome presence,' Prussia grinned.

England snorted softly, lips twitching in a suppressed smile. He was never quite sure if Prussia just had a good sense of humour, or was genuinely that self- deluded, but either way, England had always found him to be extremely amusing.

They lapsed into silence for a while, staring into the flames of their campfire, both unusually sombre.

'I wonder what we do now,' England mused.

'Celebrate,' Prussia answered. 'Just like we are right now. Booze, and women, and music… heh.'

England smiled. 'I can arrange the music if you want, _dah da_-'

'Don't you _dare_,' Prussia growled, though his lips curved into a smirk.

England let out a tired laugh, but obliged him nonetheless, falling quiet once again. He thought on France, asleep in England's tent, wrists bound, pride in tatters, and sporting what would become a beautiful black eye by the morning, but otherwise unharmed. Once his army had fallen, he had seemed strangely compliant, almost as if he was awakening from some half- awake state. England was not a fool. He knew full well that France had known was he was doing all along and that France had, he was loath to admit, displayed a good number of ideas along the way. And yet he also knew that without his little General filling his mind with nonsense, France could finally have the chance to recover that he needed, the chance to clear his head after the nastiness of the revolution.

'You know, for a victor, you look like shit,' Prussia spoke up, interrupting England's wandering thoughts.

'You're a fine one to talk,' England replied, nodding his head to where Prussia's once- white trousers were painted with a grimy layer of dirt. 'You look like you've been for a swim in the Ganges.'

'Yeah, well you can blame Belgium for that,' he sneered, jerking his head over towards where Belgium was sleeping on her bedroll. 'I don't think I've seen so much fucking mud in my entire life.'

'You should try living next to Wales,' England chuckled, but the joke was largely lost on Prussia. His laugh tapered off into a soft sigh, and he sat staring into the fire, eyes half- lidded and mesmerised. 'I'm tried,' he admitted.

Prussia looked at him, extremely surprised. It was dangerous for nations to go around admitting that they were weary. It could encourage others to take advantage of any weakness that one might admit to. And yet, somehow, Prussia couldn't bring himself to consider turning on England in that moment. Not after all of the shit that had been dragging on for far too long.

'Me too,' he agreed, sounding hesitant. England looked up at him, and caught his eye, but he frowned, and looked away, shaking off his sudden feeling of vulnerability. 'So, when all of this shit's over, I'm going to go and enjoy my new land, and keep my eyes firmly on Russia, and Austria. It's only a matter of time before they try something, and I need to be ready to crush them.'

'Heh…' England smiled, eyes distant. 'Don't know who I've got left to fight. France won't be bothering me again for a while, and Spain's not a threat any more… it's going to be bloody strange, not fighting, I mean.'

'Ahh, I'm sure you'll find _someone _to play with. Personally, I'd suggest Russia,' Prussia smirked.

England couldn't help but grin back. 'Well, I really do hate that tosser.'

'Good. That's settled then. I can't see this shit tip staying very peaceful for long anyway. It's just not how we work.'

England hummed in agreement, brushing some dried mud off his coat. 'It most certainly is not, no.' he looked up at Prussia then, eyes narrowed, and calculating, taking on the look of a greedy hawk circling around a fresh corpse, 'I hope you won't find me too forward if I suggest that we see to some marriages between our royal households in the future? It could be mutually advantageous.'

Prussia's eyebrows lifted slightly, and his mouth quirked into an amused smile. 'Oh? Your illustrious house of Hannover finally noticing me, are they?'

England shrugged, and returned to picking mud off his coat. 'Well now that the Holy Roman Empire's gone, it makes things a little bit easier to cope with in Hanover. God rest the poor little sod, but with him gone, it makes things a lot easier for me to manage.'

'Hmmm, for you, and I both,' Prussia agreed, already thinking about marching west at some distant point in the future.

'George would be happy with it, I think,' England smiled softly.

Prussia shifted slightly, his face taking on a sombre expression when he realised that England wasn't referring to his Prince reagent. 'I'm sorry for what's happened to him.'

England knew full well that Prussia wasn't just humouring him. There was very little in life that Prussia took seriously, but a good king was something that Prussia would always value. Still, England did not speak, simply nodding to indicate that he had heard, and acknowledged Prussia's words. They were supposed to be celebrating, not wallowing in sadness, mourning over great kings that had been lost to them.

And still, neither of them moved from their quiet contemplation by the campfire. Maybe tomorrow they would celebrate. It was a thought that made England smile. Not because of what he could get up to, however. It was just nice that he could even _think_ about "tomorrow."

* * *

_-1914-_

France heaved a weary sigh, dropping his head to allow his chin to rest upon England's shoulder. Without really thinking about it, England bought his hand up to push half- heartedly at France's face, muttering a distracted 'Getoff,' though his eyes remained fixed upon the map that he had unrolled across his desk.

France ignored him, studying the criss-cross of lines that represented the borders between the lands of Europe, thin and twisted, looking as fragile as a spider web. In his head, it sounded poetic, but in reality it was anything but.

He shivered, unwilling to let his mind dwell on how brittle the borders really were, on what he- or rather; _all of them_- had come to accept as unchanging, and almost sacred with an unforgivable level of complacency. Now it was far too late for the benefit of hindsight.

Swallowing, France bought his hands up to fold around England's shoulders, holding him in order to steady himself as he was assailed with dread.

'Really,' England muttered, though he seemed very far from angry, 'Entente cordiale, or no, get off me, France.'

Wordlessly, France released him, stepping back in order to lean himself against the wall behind England's desk. Patting his pockets, he located his cigarettes and popped one into his mouth, lighting it, and throwing his used match into one of England's plant pots.

'What will Spain do?' England asked him, though he did not turn to face him, fingers continuing to trail gently over the map.

France shrugged. 'He wants nothing to do with it.'

'Italy?'

'Ah,' France paused inhale from his cigarette. 'Now he's a strange one. In words he's with them, but he doesn't seem very happy about it, Romano even less so. I also heard a little rumour that neither of them want to do anything that would piss _you_ off.'

'Me?'

'Hmmmm, well they know how much you need the Med to get to your beloved India, and we_ all_ know how you get when people try to step in your way to her,' he chuckled.

'Shut up, Frog.' This time England _did _turn around to face him, if only to scowl at him.

'Anyway,' France continued, completely ignoring England's glare, 'I wouldn't be surprised if Italy ended up joining us, because he's made it very clear that he's not keen on being on _their _side.'

'Ah.'

They fell silent, and France took the opportunity to focus on the smoke that was coiling up into the air before him, forcing all other thoughts out of his mind, if only for a few brief, merciful moments.

'This is going to be bad, isn't it?' England sighed, slumping in his chair.

France stared at him for a long moment, before closing his eyes and nodding. 'I'm afraid so, my dear.'

'Shame,' England's gaze drifted over towards the window, eyes fixing upon the seemingly calm day outside. 'But I suppose we always knew that the agreements that we reached at the Congress of Vienna wouldn't last forever.'

'With us, it never really does,' France smiled.

_God bless Europe_, they both thought in that moment. _The fickle bitch that she was._

_

* * *

_

_Notes: France, I would like to stress, is not the "bad guy" in this fic. All parties are as equally guilty in being greedy, power- hungry vultures. Ironically. Napoleon did a great deal of good in Europe, introducing some revolutionary, and modern thinking into the system. That being said, by and large, he is historically noted in the rest of Europe as a great tyrant, with most European nations, excluding Poland, and North Italy (who used the opportunity to seek independence) entering into war with France at some point in the campaigns. Most noticeable was Spain who, despite being a great historical ally of France, was opposed to France throughout the entire French Revolution. After falling to France in only a year, Spain became France's ally, though it was little more than a puppet state. After a decade of 'co-operating' with France, shortly after Napoleon put his brother on the throne of Spain, the Spanish rebelled against the French (who were already in Spain in order to defeat Portugal), sparking the Peninsula War, and giving us the term 'guerrilla warfare'._

_The reason why England is featured so much not because I am writing from a purely Anglo-centric point of view (though that helps), but more because it's hard to find any part of the Napoleonic Campaigns where England isn't involved in some way or other. England was the only nation to remain at war with France throughout the entire situation, and was a core member of all six coalitions. Austria was England's most consistent ally throughout the campaigns, with Prussia in opposition to French expansion, but first having too much attention focused on occupying Poland, and later falling to a French invasion in only a few days, meaning that Prussia was in, and out of coalitions._

_I had Romano as still living with Spain up until a very late point in order to depict Romano's Bourbon royal family which, at the time of Napoleon, still had very close ties with the Spanish throne. At the start of this story Naples has been taken from him, but Sicily remained free, and fighting back against France. Since I couldn't have him split himself in half, and, going with his character in the manga, I had him stay with Spain, at least until Spain fell to France in the Peninsula War. Sicily was, surprisingly, staunchly against France throughout the entirety of the campaigns, which I tried to convey here, while still keeping it so that Naples lived under French rule. Urgh. Thank you, Hetalia. Additionally, I am aware that Italian unification was already whispered about by this point. Again, I went on the character. Judging by Romano the character, and the plight of Sicily, I feel that Romano was opposed to the idea of unification at this stage, purely because it would mean being under French rule. Not because he is opposed to the unification himself._

_'The British Grenadiers' ("The Granadeer's March", before Great Britain was created) is an English, and British marching song dating from the 1600s. It is arguably the most famous marching tune that we have. It is still played today._

"You look like you've been for a swim in the Ganges_," casual nineteenth century English racism agogo!_


End file.
